The Grey Man- Partners

by JL Curtis

  Turning in her arms, Aaron hugged her back and kissed the top of her head, “Hey, you didn’t know, and the last thing I expected was to see you there. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody’s wife show up at the range.”

  “I won’t do it again, I promise.”

  “It’s not that, it’s just that I’m going to catch a ration of shit forever for it. When you shoot better than I did, and everybody knows I’m a sniper, well…”

  Matt interrupted, “Hey, you two get a room! None of that serious shit tonight! It’s Friday!”

  Jesse giggled and Aaron blushed, as Boo Boo weaseled his way between them. They walked hand in hand back to the living room, and sat on the couch with Jace between them as Matt started the CD player with the movie Felicia had picked out for Friday’s double-date night.

  A Strange Note

  A month after the depositions, John Cronin drove slowly into the parking lot at the Sheriff’s Department mulling over whether he was ready, much less willing to come back. Yogi whined softly as he lay his head on the center console, and the old man reached down and petted him without thinking. Shutting the car off in his parking space, he put Yogi on the leash and let him visit his tree, then walked slowly to the back door.

  Steeling himself, the old man keyed the combo and pulled the door open slowly. Yogi slipped around him and basically pulled him through the door. He walked down the hallway and turned into his office, not knowing what to expect.

  He looked around and realized nothing had been touched in the two months or so that he’d been gone, and he felt the tension leave him slowly. Taking Yogi off the leash, he hung it by the door as Yogi bolted for dispatch, wanting to be petted. Picking up his coffee cup and Yogi’s water bowl, the old man started down the hall to the kitchen. Lisa stuck her head out of dispatch and said quietly, “Welcome back Captain. We’ve missed you.” The old man just nodded, as Lisa disappeared back into dispatch.

  He continued down the hall, filled the water bowl and decided to just take it back first, rather than try to juggle both a full bowl and a coffee cup. He came back and filled his cup, then decided to take the bull by the horns and see what the sheriff would say. Knocking on the sheriff’s door, he saw Jose Rodriquez look up in amazement then say, “John, come on in.” Getting up Jose stuck out his hand, and continued, “You sure you’re up to coming back? Sit. Sit.”

  The old man shook his hand and sat carefully in one of the chairs. “Jose, I’m bored to tears at the ranch, and Duck says I’m as good as I’m going to get. I sent those guys home yesterday, and figured if I was ever going to get back on the horse, today was the time.”

  The sheriff leaned back, “Kinda now or never, right?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. I know you’ve kept me out of the loop, so I figure I’ll need a few days to catch up.”

  “Well, I had Hart filling in for you, but he’s not you. We’ve got a few irons in the fire, but nothing that’s burning my ass, so take a day or so to get up to speed.”

  The old man nodded and got up, “Okay, I can do that. You don’t want to keep the creds until the civil case plays out?”

  “Nah, Ranger Lambert cleared us, and he told me the civil case is BS, and I’d be nuts to not put you back in the saddle. I got the official notification last night.”

  “What about the civil…”

  The sheriff waved his hand, “Not my problem. I need you back at work, John. Randall tells me Mr. Moore is playing games with Hector over the deposition and where it’s going to be done, and she wants to go sit in as an ‘observer’ to protect the department.”

  “Oh that’s not going to go over well with Hector, or that New York lawyer that’s playing the wizard.”

  “Don’t care, not my monkey, not my circus, John. That case is pure BS, and everybody knows it except Roland and the lawyer. Now get your butt back to work! You’re behind!”

  “Yowza boss, shakin’ it over here boss,” the old man said with a smile as he headed back to his office.

  Three hours later, the old man leaned back and winced as his chest pulled. Dammit, getting stabbed just sucks. Can’t take a deep breath, I can feel something pulling, probably some scar tissue. Duck and the guys are gone, and I really don’t want to get Doc Truesdale in the middle of this mess. Getting up slowly, he rolled his shoulders and groaned.

  He’d gone all the way back in his email to the day he was stabbed, and read every one. The saddest, was the one from the sheriff over in Louisiana on the veteran that had been hit by the truck outside Fort Stockton. Apparently the veteran had been determined to get home, and didn’t have the money to fly, and no family that could come get him, so he just walked out and started walking east. The family had been distraught, but the sheriff had said there was nothing Pecos County could have done differently.

  Looking around, he didn’t see Yogi, and wandered over to dispatch. Staring at the door, he saw himself reflected in the mirrored window. White hair and mustache, gray Dickies work shirt and pants, black gun belt with a cocked and locked 1911 riding there, and spare magazines resting on his left side. Damn, when did my hair go white? Shit, getting old sucks.

  He pushed open the door and sure enough, Yogi was sitting next to Lisa’s chair and she was idly stroking his head. “Trying to steal my dog again, Lisa?” The old man asked,

  Lisa jumped a bit, then realized what she was doing. Blushing she said, “No sir, Captain. I honestly didn’t realize…”

  The old man laughed, “I’m teasing. He needs to go out, c’mon Yogi. Out.”

  Yogi interrupted the conversation by barking from the door, prompting both of them to laugh, “Fine dog, now you want to go out.” Clapping his hands the old man continued, “Get your leash.” Yogi disappeared and came back dragging the leash, dropping it at the old man’s feet.

  “Good boy, Yogi!” The old man said, as he hooked the leash and patted Yogi on the head. Taking him out to his tree, he looked around the yard and decided it was good to be back. Vegetating at the house hadn’t been his strong suit, and he was thankful that Duck and Bob had pushed him to get out and move. He couldn’t imagine just sitting around doing nothing.

  Picking up after Yogi, he deposited the bag in the garbage and decided to go to lunch. Loading Yogi in the car, he keyed the mic, “Dispatch, Car four, I’m out for lunch and I’m going over to the PD when I get done.”

  Lisa answered, “Dispatch copies.”

  Driving slowly, the old man tried to decide where to go for lunch, keeping in mind that Yogi was going to get probably half of what he would get. He finally decided on Mexican food, and pulled into one of the restaurants that had outside tables.

  Sitting down, he wrapped the leash around the chair arm, perused the menu and sniffed the air, enjoying the scent of good Mexican food and the breeze that knocked the temperature down enough to make it comfortable.

  Maria, the waitress, came out with a glass of iced tea, chips and salsa. Setting them on the table she impulsively hugged the old man, “Senor Cronin, it is good to see you. Felix and Olivia have been keeping us informed on how you are doing. Do you know what you want?” She reached down and ruffled Yogi’s head, “And I know what you want Lobo!” Yogi rewarded her with a lick on the hand and a sharp bark, making her laugh.

  The old man smiled, “I guess the combination plate, better make it mild for me. Beans and rice. One and only one taco for the mutt.”

  “Si, Senor. One combination mild, and one muy grande taco for Lobo,” she said with a laugh. “I’ll bring him a bowl with some water too.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he was finishing up the meal, Miguel, the owner, came out and sat down heavily, wiping his bald head with a towel. “Senor, it’s good to see you. I’m so sorry for what happened. It gives us a bad name.”

  The old man pushed his plate away with a sigh, “De nada, it wasn’t the community’s fault. I missed your cooking Miguel. What’s been going on while I’ve been out?”

  Miguel, one of the de facto comm
unity leaders, caught the old man up on what he’d heard and seen in the Mexican community, and the various rumors that were going around. He gleefully related how Sanchez, the biggest drug dealer in the local Mexican community had been taken down, and how much it had cut the flow of drugs into the community. Maria brought a small dish of ice cream for Yogi. The old man made him sit and wait, but once he let him go, Yogi gobbled it in two bites, much to everyone’s amusement.

  The old man paid the check, leaving a nice tip for Maria, and loaded Yogi back in the car. Stopping by the PD, he spent a few minutes with the detectives, passing along what Miguel had told him and getting a feel for what else was happening in town. While that might sound strange, many times things that started in town tended to spill out into the county sooner rather than later.

  The chief stopped in and thanked the old man for helping get Sanchez off the streets, saying they’d seen a significant dip in not only drugs, but drug related crimes. The old man man smiled, A lot of places, city and county work well together, and information passed freely. Thankfully, we don’t have any pissing matches and ‘I’ve got a secret’ being played routinely between departments. “Thanks Chief, it’s all about a team effort.”

  The old man decided since he was out, he’d go ahead and run out to the DPS office, and touch base with them about what they’d been seeing on the interstate while he’d been out. Pulling into their parking lot, Yogi started whining, and the old man quickly parked, then got Yogi out and walked him over to the grass. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a trooper pull in as he waited for Yogi to finish sniffing and actually relieve himself.

  Trooper Wilson walked over, “Hey Captain, good to see you back on duty! And thanks for not letting Yogi piss on the tires.”

  “Piss on the tires?”

  Wilson nodded, “Yep, pissing on tires. Seems like a lot of folks like to show either their dogs’ or maybe their own displeasure with us by letting the dogs piss on the cruiser’s tires. Maintenance is getting tired of rusted wheels, and now we’re supposed to check the car before coming off shift. If it has been pissed on, we’re supposed to run it through the wash.”

  The old man shook his head and chuckled, “Sounds like some folks need to pay more attention to where they park their cars!”

  Wilson said ruefully, “Yeah, learned my lesson already. What are you doing out here?”

  “Coming out to pick y’alls’ brains. I need to get up to speed. Sarge around today?”

  “He should be. I heard him on the radio earlier.”

  ***

  Back in the office after his fact-finding trip, the old man finally started digging through the pile of mail that had stacked up since he’d been out. Magazines, he set to the side to read later, official mail, he put in a different pile, and the junk mail went in the trashcan.

  That left two extra pieces, neither of them official, but addressed to him. One was from a Mexican accounting firm, and one was from Antonio, his friend and counter-narcotics partner in Rome. Tapping them in his hand, he set them on the edge of the desk to take home, figuring the accountant one must be connected to the steers he’d sold to Villegas down in Sonora.

  Plowing through the official mail took the rest of the day. Between training requirements, changes in the laws, various bits and pieces from DEA, FBI and CBP on incidents, intel updates, and wants and warrants, he had a headache by the time he was done.

  Loading Yogi in the car, the old man headed for the ranch, but at the last minute decided to stop at the truck stop and grab a burger. Putting Yogi in the dog run, he walked slowly inside and sat at the counter watching the door.

  “Captain?” Toni asked softly.

  The old man turned, “Hey Toni, how about a burger and fries to go?” He was surprised to see Toni put her hands to her mouth as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Are you okay, Toni?”

  Toni nodded and turned away quickly. He watched her scribble his order, punch it on the wheel and spin it so the cooks could see it, and disappear into the kitchen. Leon, the restaurant manager came out moments later, and brought the old man a glass of sweet tea, setting it in front of him, “Glad to see you back, Captain!”

  “What’s wrong with Toni?”

  Leon started, “Oh, you didn’t know, did you? Toni was the one that called the shooting in. The last time she saw you, she just knew you were dead. She’s just having a bit of trouble handling it right now.”

  “Oh… I didn’t… I guess I owe her a thank you.” The old man was quiet for a minute, “I guess this is the first time I’ve been back in here since I got stabbed. I’ve got to go watch Yogi; I’ll come back in a little bit to get the food.”

  Leon said, “I’ll bring it out. Don’t worry about Toni, she’s just happy you’re walking around and she’s embarrassed about crying.”

  Ten minutes later, the old man picked up his food from Leon, looked in vain for Toni, and went to the car, loading Yogi up, he drove slowly home. Back at the ranch, he let Yogi run for a few minutes, then called him in, and got ready to feed him. Opening one of the Styrofoam containers, he found his fries crammed in with the burger and a big T-bone in the other one. He laughed, knowing that had come from Toni, and he vowed to make sure to thank her for it. Cutting it in half, he dropped it in the bowl for Yogi, and sat eating his burger and fries as he slowly unwound from the day.

  After dinner, he looked for the two letters, and realized he’d left them in the car. He took Yogi out again, and sat on the front porch reading the letter from Tony, chuckling at the antics of the kids and at Tony’s sly comments about policing and its interference with his marriage in Italy.

  Yogi finally tired of chasing whatever he thought was out there, and flopped on the porch next to the old man’s rocking chair as he opened the other letter. Looking at the header, it was an accounting firm from Cozumel that he’d never heard of. As he read it, the envelope dropped unnoticed to the floor.

  The old man’s thoughts ricocheted between horror, anger, and disbelief. I cannot believe this shit is for real. This has to be a setup or a cruel joke. However,… A Carlos Montoya is the number two in the Zeta’s. Could this possibly be the same guy? He’s sorry for what happened to me? What the fuck? He wants a meet? Something that he’d like to discuss? Juanita and Toby shot dead right here in this house? Jesse only surviving that shoot out by the grace of God? Mike Harrington and Francisco dying at the river crossing when we were almost home? Eddie and Iris’s son? The hundreds… Hell, thousands they’ve killed below the border…

  The old man dropped the letter to the floor, his head in his hands as the memories flooded through him; tears running freely. Yogi pushed his head into the old man’s chest, whining softly and he dropped a hand to Yogi’s head, stroking it and remembering Sam, Jesse’s German Shepherd, dying trying to save Jesse, Toby, and Juanita.

  His grief finally spent, the old man picked up the letter and envelope, and walked slowly into the house, Yogi so close to him he was rubbing against the old man’s leg. The old man carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope then dropped it on the desk. He knew he had to think about what to do with this one, and a quick decision wasn’t what was needed.

  ***

  The next morning he called Billy on the landline before he left for work asking Billy to touch base with his network and see if he could get info on the accounting firm in Cozumel that was on the letterhead. When Billy pressed him about it, the old man told him it was related to the Villegas sale and dropped it. Billy, from long experience just said he’d check and would get back to Cronin as soon as he could.

  The old man debated also calling Bucky about it, but decided to wait until he heard back from Billy. He still wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with the information, deciding to play his cards close to the vest for the time being.

  Training, Training, and more Training

  The dining room table, the floor and part of the couch looked like a hurricane had hit it, with all of Aaron’s field gear strewn ever
ywhere. Matt and Aaron were going through the packs, discarding some items, digging through gear bags, piling uniforms and other things in the middle of the floor and generally making a mess as Jesse and Felicia sat on the little bit of couch remaining, eyes wide as they watched the two of them at work. Jesse had to keep a firm grip on Jace, as he wanted to grab everything he could see and stick it in his mouth, and there was a lot available to him. Boo Boo, Jesse’s Malinois, wasn’t helping, as she was picking up things the men were dropping and bringing them to Jesse and Jace.

  Opening one bag yielded a cloud of dust that set Aaron cussing, “Damn, they just threw this shit in a bag and didn’t even wash it.” He started to shake the stuff out in the living room, then saw Jesse looking. “Uh, lemme take this outside. Jesse, have we got laundry soap?” Aaron asked somewhat sheepishly.

  Jesse snorted, “Of course we do. We ladies do wash things every once in a while, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Felicia laughed, “And we vacuum too, which we’re going to have to do after you two get through playing soldier. And probably dust the entire house. What is all this stuff?”

  Matt turned, “Well, this is Aaron’s old issue, which was sent back from Afghanistan, plus his new issue, and the extra stuff he had squirreled away. We’ve got to pare it down to a three-day pack, and make it jumpable. I think they’re going to truck them in, but you never know.”

  Aaron came back in from the parking lot, smiling, “I found my woobie!” He continued through the apartment and they heard the washer start as he came back empty handed.

  Jesse and Felicia looked at each other and Jesse finally asked, “Woobie?”

  Aaron blushed, “It’s a poncho liner. It’s warm, okay?”

  “But, Jace has a woobie. It’s his little blanket.”

  Matt laughed, “Jesse, y’all have to understand. That poncho liner is just like Jace’s blanket. It serves the same function, in addition to actually being warm. There is nothing worse than sitting in a foxhole, or guard post in the winter, and freezing your ass off. Lots of guys carry their ponchos with the liners installed and put them over their MARPAT. That way they stay warm, but their hands and arms are free if they need to move them or shoot.”